


A Willing Heart

by impossiblewanderings



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bofur is Ridiculously Lovely, Bofur/Bilbo broship, Gen, and Dwarvish mourning customs!, and slight Bagginshield!, and wargs, even when he has completely legit reasons not to be, there are giant bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblewanderings/pseuds/impossiblewanderings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tragedy strikes at the foot of Beorn's Carrock and Bilbo struggles with the Dwarvish way of mourning. Meanwhile, the deceased in question is Not Quite Dead and alone in a dangerous land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. something in the wind

Just when Bilbo Baggins thought that the doings and thinking of dwarves could not possibly surprise him any more, there would come another ridiculous situation to prove him wrong.

His poor legs were scraped bloody from scrambling about in Gollum's cave, most of the hair had been singed from his feet in his mad attempt to save Thorin Oakenshield from losing his head and he was so tired that the ground of the rocky little valley looked like a feather bed. Bilbo could hardly remember the last time he had slept - before Goblin-town at least, and he hadn't even dared to close his eyes after the thunder battle for fear he would miss his chance to return to Rivendell.

By rights the dwarves should be in a worse state than him, having to run through the goblin tunnels, opposed for every step they gained. But instead the fools were clustered around the huge rock that Gandalf called the Carrock, muttering to each other in their harsh tongue and exploring it with their fingertips and weapons. Thorin was having his wounds attended to by Oin while Balin spoke with him at length. Bilbo tried to make out what they were saying, afraid that perhaps Thorin's wounds were worse than expected, but Oin at least seemed calm, although that may have been because he was stone deaf after losing his horn in the tunnels.

"You should sleep while you can, Master Hobbit. We will have to move on before long."

Bilbo turned to Gandalf who sat wrapped in his long grey cloak. Smoke curled from his pipe, and his eyes were kindly as he looked down at him. Bilbo threw down his jacket and used it as a cushion to shield against the stony dirt. It did little good and he sighed, running a hand over his face as though he could rub away his weariness along with the dirt.

"Should they be doing that?"

Bilbo nodded towards the dwarves who were still apparently fascinated by the unremarkable lump of rock. Dwalin, he saw, had borrowed Bofur's mattock to chip away at the shelf of stone that reared above their heads, while Fili and Kili hovered curiously over his shoulder. Bilbo had once tried to lift Bofur's mattock and had only succeeded in dragging it while its owner chuckled good-naturedly at his efforts. It looked like a toy in Dwalin's meaty fist. Bilbo looked at Gandalf anxiously as Dwalin struck at the Carrock again before leaning close to peer at the result.

"Won't your friend be angry? That they're ... well, hacking away at the Carrock?"

Gandalf laughed and let a thin cloud of smoke stream between his lips.

"Oh no. It would take even a dwarf a long year to make any sort of dent in that."

Chips of stone went flying as the mattock bit in again, and Bilbo raised his eyebrows.

"I think you might be underestimating how stubborn they can be."

Gandalf only smiled into his beard and wandered away to speak to Thorin. Bilbo sat a moment, watching the dwarves at work before he saw a familiar huddled shape a little way off. Bofur was sitting with his back to the sun-warmed rock with his beloved hat pushed over his eyes, and his pipe smouldering forgotten on his knee. Bilbo flung himself down beside Bofur, kicking out his sore feet in front of him and resting his spine against the smooth grey stone.

"Good afternoon, Mister Boggins."

Bilbo rolled his eyes at the grin spreading across the lower part of the dwarf's face.

"And what's good about it?" He asked grumpily, massaging his calves gingerly.

"Well, I thought the being alive part was worth a bit of celebration."

Bilbo stopped and stared at his companion for a moment. "Does nothing ever dampen your spirits, Bofur? Don't you ever get angry?"

Bofur pushed his hat back and met Bilbo's eyes with genuine puzzlement.

"Angry about what exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact we were all nearly killed at least five times last night? Or that we nearly fell off a cliff? Or even the fact that the Eagles managed to bring us out of the Mountains but couldn't waste two minutes putting us on the ground instead of on top of a cliff with steps we had to climb down using our _belts as ropes_?"

"Yes, well they probably don't like going on the ground much, would they, the Eagles? All that living in trees and on mountain-tops - and I'm sure the Men wouldn't like it, what with their sheep being such a tasty snack for a bird that size."

Bilbo thumped his head against the Carrock and sighed.

"I don't know why I bother with you. You're irrepressible."

Bofur was studying him with great intent as Bilbo complained. Then he began to struggle out of his heavy overcoat, dragging off his scarf in the process.

"I think what you need is a nap, Bilbo. We could all use a rest before long, even Thorin, though he'd never admit it. Everything will seem better when you wake up."

Bilbo privately thought that no amount of rest could ever make him feel 'better' about being nearly brutally murdered and eaten by that horrid Gollum creature, but Bofur stifled his mutters by dropping his coat over Bilbo like a blanket. He protested, naturally, but Bofur just patted his shoulder with a wink and a grin and refused to take the coat back, and it really was comfortable with the rock at his back soaking up the sunlight - and Bilbo's eyelids seemed to sink of their own accord.

With a fierce struggle he got them pried open again to see Bofur humming quietly to himself as he knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"Why aren't you with the others?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why aren't you looking at the...Carrock?"

Bofur smiled gently and pressed his fingers against the rock at his back.

"I can see it fine from here. Aye, and feel it too. It's good stone, no faults in it. You can tell because of the warmth. Poor stone is always cold, rotten right through the grain. You remember that, Master Burglar."

"But that's because of the sun. It's only warm because the sun is on it."

Bofur cocked his head and in his dark eyes there was amusement.

"Is that so?"

There came a shout in Khuzdul from where the Company were gathering near Thorin and Gandalf and Bofur looked up. Then he jumped to his feet and answered in the same language. Whatever he said made Fili and Kili laugh, and Dori shake his head in mild disapproval. Bofur looked back down at where Bilbo lay, his nimble fingers tightening his belt as he spoke.

"You'd best take your rest, Bilbo. We're moving on soon, but they're needing me for scouting behind to make sure none of those goblins have sniffed their way after us. Hold onto my coat 'til then, I won't be needing it in this weather."

Later, when Bilbo thought about that guileless bright day, turning it over and over in his mind in guilt and grief, he should have realised.

He should have heard it from the trees, sensed something in the wind that might have saved him.

But Bilbo Baggins was not a warrior, nor a great wizard, nor even a very good burglar. And as he watched the three figures dwindle away down the valley until they were lost to sight, there was no doubt in his mind that they would be back when he woke.


	2. seems like tragedy's at hand

Bilbo woke up cold and uncomfortable, with a terrible feeling that something was wrong. He had slept away the afternoon and the Carrock loomed unpleasantly at his back, blotting out the first pale stars.

Clouds were blowing over in ragged streamers of pink and gold, and the sky was the pale blue that warned of the coming of autumn. If he had been in the Shire, it would have been a sky he could have watched for hours until the stars spilled across the heavens like grains of wheat blown by the wind.

A cold breeze howled through the little valley, making Bilbo shiver. He was clutching Bofur's coat to his chest as he clambered to his feet, and he could feel his heart pounding away beneath his shirt. The dwarves were blocks of shadow against the richness of the sunset. A blue star flickered over Thorin's head like a crown as Bilbo hurried over to join the Company. Seeing Gandalf gravely standing a little to one side, Bilbo wriggled through the silent dwarves to reach him.

"Gandalf, what's going on? Is there something wrong?"

The wizard looked down at him and terror touched Bilbo's heart. Gandalf looked _old_ , ancient and sorrowful and enduring, like a tree weathered by time and worn by wind to a shadow of its former strength and beauty.

In the middle of the watching Company, Fili and Kili were standing in front of their uncle. Kili's face was white and drawn, his jaw tight. Fili had a firm grasp on his shoulder and as Bilbo watched he shook his brother gently, bringing a little life to Kili's blank stare.

Then Fili reluctantly stepped forward and held out a weapon that Bilbo knew very well. He spoke in Khuzdul with a halting rhythm, and when he stopped Thorin slowly reached out and touched the worn wooden handle of Bofur's mattock.

Gandalf stirred beside Bilbo.

"That was Ancient Khuzdul, of which only a few phrases remain to the knowledge of the dwarves. _Here is the weapon of an honourable dwarf. Here is the best and last of one who died for his King_."

"No!" Bilbo cried out involuntarily, and his arms hung nerveless at his sides. Bofur's coat fell into a miserable little bundle on the ground but Bilbo didn't notice. He stormed his way up to Thorin Oakenshield and looked him straight in the eyes.

"He's not dead. You're wrong. He's not dead- he's...he's..."

Thorin's solemn gaze splintered into a dark blur as tears filled Bilbo's eyes. Savagely he wiped them away, and Thorin deliberately looked away over his head to address Fili.

"How many were there?"

"We counted ten, Uncle, maybe more. We must move before the pack catches our scent. Kili shot three but-"

"I hit the one that had Bofur. Put an arrow right through its throat and it wouldn't die." Kili recounted in a lifeless tone. His previously blank gaze was now directed on the sparse tufts of grass growing under his boots.

Dwalin spoke up then, his craggy face as cold and unfeeling as though it had been hewn from rock.

"Had they riders?"

"Nay, but it is only a matter of time before they follow."

The tip of Gandalf's staff gleamed with a bright light, illuminating the Company as the sun dipped below the horizon. Crickets buzzed, hidden somewhere amongst the rocks as evening crept in.

"Then we must move, Thorin, or risk another night like the pine forest. We have already lingered too long."

Thorin hesitated, then gave a slight nod.

"Let us begone from this accursed place, and swiftly."

The Company was ready to move within moments, the only preparations needed being the tightening of their belts and the gathering of their weapons, those being all that they had carried out of the lair of the goblins.

Little Bilbo stood dazed in the midst of all the commotion, a pain in his heart and disbelief in his head. He didn't understand how the dwarves could be so cruel. Besides himself, it seemed that only Ori felt the loss of Bofur was a matter for tears, and even as Bilbo watched Nori clapped a hand on the young dwarf's shoulder and murmured something to him that made Ori nod and wipe away his tears.

"Come now, Bilbo. We have a long walk ahead of us in the dark."

Bilbo turned to face Gandalf's kind smile, made all the worse by the fact that he was ordinarily so quick-tempered, so crotchety and grumpy. Gandalf was trying to make him feel better, and Bilbo was too numb to think of anything he could do except fall into step beside the wizard. He twisted his neck around for a last look at the Carrock, but it was invisible in the darkness and Bilbo began to weep again, silently. He kept his head down and let the tears roll off his cheeks as they picked their way along the rough uneven ground.

The dwarves left Bilbo alone. Thorin was at their head, leading them on with the superior night-vision granted to his race that lived out their lives underground, and Gandalf and Bilbo walked at the back, the wizard occasionally lifting his staff to help Thorin see the path when even he faltered.

Once Kili dropped back, sure-footed and silent as an elf, to give Bilbo the squashed, wool-lined hat he had recovered from the scene of their battle.

The sight of it, without Bofur, was so wrong it turned Bilbo's stomach and when Kili turned to melt away back into the night Bilbo stopped him.

"Wait -I - shouldn't this go to Bombur? Or Bifur?"

"Thorin has given Bombur his brother's mattock as a keepsake. Bifur has no need of another weapon, nor of any hat."

"But it shouldn't -"

Kili cut him off, saying shortly, "Bofur was as kin to you. It is right that you should have something of his."

Afterwards, Bilbo carried his friend's hat carefully in his hands until Gandalf leaned down towards him.

"Hats are meant to be worn, Master Hobbit. Bofur would have wanted you to use it."

"Yes...yes, I suppose."

But he could not put it on, not now, and though a bitter rain began to fall Gandalf did not press him and Bilbo tucked the hat into his jacket so it would not get wet, though he knew full well that Bofur had worn it in all types of weather.

The Company stopped their march after several hours for a rest. Gandalf strode off to speak with Thorin and Balin, looking anxious, and from what Bilbo could make out he was encouraging them to move on quickly, so as to make it to his friend's house by the next day.

Bilbo didn't care if the terrible march ever ended. Now that they had stopped he could no longer keep his mind on putting one foot in front of the other and sadness welled up inside him again. He sat alone, tired and sore and heartsick, while the dwarves huddled for warmth and conversed quietly together.

Suddenly, Bilbo remembered poor Bofur's coat that he had dropped at the Carrock. He thought of that sad little heap of fabric, much patched and mended by his friend's clever fingers, perhaps the only coat he owned, now wet and muddied and abandoned.

He was a terrible friend, a terrible person, and Bilbo could feel the tears hot and thick at the back of his throat. Then he saw Bifur. The dwarf was standing by himself in the pouring rain, staring doggedly back the way they had come.

Did Bifur understand that his cousin was dead? Was he waiting for him to appear out of the darkness with his familiar smile and his unquenchable good cheer?

Bilbo sat and watched Bifur, and considered what he could do, what he should do. Kili had called him Bofur's kin. That meant Bombur and Bifur were as well.

Bilbo Baggins stood, pulling Bofur's floppy hat onto his head, and walked out into the downpour. He took Bifur's scarred and callused hand in his.

"Come on now, Bifur." Bilbo said, trying to sound calm and cheerful and brave, trying to sound like Bofur had when he spoke to his strange cousin.

"Come in out of the rain and we'll get you warm again."

Bilbo tugged gently on Bifur's hand, and the dwarf huffed out something that might have been a word, or only a sigh, and followed.


	3. (the worst is) just around the bend

 

The She-Warg was old and vicious and wise in the ways of the world. It seemed to her a waste of meat to send word to the goblins of their escaped prey. She considered that if they were foolish enough to lose the dwarves, they did not deserve to have them given back, especially when the pack needed to be fed, and having seen the ominous signs that heralded the approach of winter.

She sent her swiftest and most cunning to chase the dwarves, and they nosed their way across the plain, following the tracks of the two that had fled into the dusk. There were some young wolves that argued and yelped and dared to snap at her, but after she bowled one youngster after another off their feet and laid open the nose of the boldest, even the largest tucked tail and slunk off, leaving the She-Warg the spoils of the fight. The pack could feed on the flesh of their dead, but as eldest and leader, and with a litter to feed, it was she who claimed the body of the dwarf.

She dragged the stout little body by its boot back towards her den, pausing only to rub the arrow out of the muscle of her neck on a tree. It had not been able to pierce her fur far enough to wound severely, but it ached and she snapped the arrow shaft between her jaws and flung it away into the darkness.

As she neared her den, her pups began to yelp, smelling her approach along with the thick scent of blood from her prize. It made the She-Warg growl deep in her chest with approval. This litter was strong. They already waged savage battles between themselves, snapping and snarling like little demons. It gave her hope that they would survive the winter to come, and so grow to strengthen the pack.

The hungry cries of her children woke her prey from its limp state. It groaned and kicked feebly at her. The She-Warg was not worried. The dwarf had no weapons, and the weakness of its attacks told her it had lost too much life-blood to mount any sort of serious defence. Stepping backwards and pulling with all the strength of her jaws and thick neck, she succeeded in pulling the dwarf into the warmth of her den towards her pups' waiting mouths.

* * *

"I shall go first with Bilbo. The rest of you follow two by two when you hear my signal. Leave about five minutes between each pair. This is a very dangerous man and we do not wish to upset him."

The huge, vibrantly coloured bees in the bee-pastures sparked a tiny ember of interest in Bilbo, cutting through some of the dullness that suffused his mind. His head ached from his weeping the previous day, and he was so tired that he was swaying on his feet. Bifur was a strangely comforting presence at his side. They had walked together all day, sometimes with Bombur on his other side when the path allowed, and it felt good not to be alone with the misery that had been born out of Bofur's death.

"And what if this skin-changer decides not to render us aid? Must we go on wandering witless in this forsaken land?"

Thorin looked as though he had rested about as easily as Bilbo last night. There was a deep well of fury in his stance and his voice, and his nephews flanked him as they did in all things, though Fili and Kili looked more tired and miserable than enraged.

Gandalf rounded on him, shaking his head severely.

"We shall not be witless as long as I am here, Master Oakenshield, and so long as I am with you it would be prudent to take my advice."

"Why should we not just take what we need, and damn all this fooling about and talk of signalling! We outnumber him thirteen to one!"

More than a few of the dwarves were nodding at Dwalin's argument. Bilbo had no desire to be caught up in another battle, particularly not with a friend of Gandalf's, and it was with uneasiness that he realised that the Company numbered again thirteen, as they had before he joined. It seemed ill-omened, especially when they needed all the luck they could get to take down a dragon.

"That would be an incredibly foolish thing to do, Dwalin son of Fundin. Beorn could rip you limb from limb as easily as a man as he could as a bear! Now, no more of this. Thorin, talk some sense into your Company and follow when you hear my whistle. Come along, Bilbo."

Bilbo followed along in the trail of the irate wizard, and the mutinous mutterings of the dwarves were soon drowned out by the noise of the bees.

* * *

Bofur struggled back to consciousness choking for breath, with the crushing weight of the giant warg on his chest. His whittling knife was hilt-deep in the beast's right eye, clotted with congealing blood. Moving the corpse was impossible, so with his free arm Bofur groped for a tree root poking out from the side of the burrow, and painfully dragged himself out, inch by inch, from under the predator's body.

The sun was up, and the touch of dawn air on his face, drifting into the suffocatingly close hole, was nearly enough to drive him mad. In his longing he pulled too hard and the root snapped, throwing him flat on his back. The blaze of pain in his side kept him from moving any further for a long time, trying to pant his way through the agony to something manageable.

Finally his feet slid free and Bofur dragged himself like a madman to the lip of the hole to drag in a breath of sweet free air. Dew sparkled on the bushes and leaves, and the damp smell of the ground told him that there had been heavy rain last night, though he could not remember it. It took all his meagre courage to turn and crawl back into the warg's den, but after a moment he emerged with his bloodied knife, his only weapon in the wild. Bofur stretched out as far as he could and tore a clump of wet weeds from where they grew nearby, and wiped the gore from his blade as best he could. Behind in the dimness, a warg pup whined and Bofur pushed his back against the slight curve of the den, disturbing showers of loose soil that trickled over his shoulders.

Bofur closed his eyes, promising himself it would only be for a moment, while his fingers probed the pattern of bruising over his chest from his struggle with the mother warg. But soon his head tipped forward and he fell into a stupor, while tree shadows danced across his face.

* * *

After the meal was finished, their host disappeared and the dwarves dispersed to prepare themselves for sleep. Bilbo's poor shrunken stomach was full to bursting with honey and cream, and his thirst slaked with fine mead that Beorn brewed himself, but his tiredness had progressed to such a state that Bilbo seemed to have found a hidden store of energy. Bombur and Bifur were sitting on the floorboards by the fire, seemingly also reluctant to retire then and there.

Bilbo sat down beside them, and stared into the flickering red and orange tongues of flame. He was thinking of nothing in particular, but Bofur's death was still his nearest and sharpest memory and he began to wonder.

"Does it bother you...that you don't know where he died?"

Bombur blinked at him, his round face drooping and melancholy in the flickering light.

"We know where he fell. Fili and Kili described where they fought."

"No, I mean, does it bother you that you don't have a...a place to visit him?"

Bifur spoke then, unexpectedly, and at length, and Bombur translated, stirring restlessly.

"Only great dwarves, lords and kings, have tombs. Ordinary dwarves bury their dead deep within the mountains, in the stone that we are akin to. But in the great battles...after the fall of Erebor, we had to burn them. Many bodies, all mixed together and turned to ash. It was not right."

Bombur paused, then continued, patting his cousin on the shoulder.

"It was a hard time, Bifur. Thorin and Thrain had little choice."

"In the Shire," Bilbo volunteered, without quite knowing why, "we bury our family in the places we knew they loved. If they had a favourite tree, or a place where they used to like to go... There was a little grove of willow trees near the Brandywine where my mother loved to walk. That was where I laid my parents to rest when their time came."

"For some, their time comes more quickly than others." Bifur said, and again Bombur translated.

"Yes." Bilbo agreed sadly, and for a moment the shade of Bofur seemed to float before his eyes like smoke, and was gone.

* * *

It took Bofur a frustratingly long time to gather enough fuel to make a fire. At first, he had tried to hum snatches of old tunes and songs to distract him from the pain in his side, but it left him breathless and light-headed and at last he was silent, gritting his teeth as he assembled the twigs and leaves to his liking.

His flint had luckily still been in his pocket, even after all the shaking and jolting the warg had given him, and the spark he struck caught, shrivelling the leaves into little spirals.

Patiently, Bofur fed the little fire until it was large and hot enough to suit his purpose, by which time evening was creeping in. That he had no pack, nor food or water was a constant worry, but his seeping wound was a priority. It still bled sluggishly, kept open by whatever unnatural filth a warg had on its fangs, and Bofur could not hope to rejoin his Company leaving a trail that any creature could follow.

When he considered the flames as hot as he could make them, he thrust his whittling knife into the centre and watched it slowly begin to glow. It was almost like being at a forge again, watching the metal gleam white-hot, too bright for non-Dwarvish eyes to look at. His hand as he removed the blade was flushed red with the heat, and Bofur thought idly of dragon-fire as he dragged up his shirt to expose his wound.

Despite the situation, Bofur found himself chuckling as he recalled his first sight of their burglar, flustered and overwhelmed in the presence of the Company. He even remembered the thump as Bilbo hit the mat, out cold from a mere _description_ of a dragon. The look on Thorin's face had been priceless.

"A furnace with wings. Aye, Bofur, you always were a fool."

How far they all had come. Then Bofur sucked in a breath and thrust the flat of his knife against the ugly wound that crawled across his ribs and belly, and all his thoughts were drowned in white.


	4. can't shake this feeling that I have

Thorin came upon the hobbit without warning sitting amongst Beorn's flowerbeds. Bilbo was smoking his odd smelling pipe-weed, and cocking a curious eye at the plants that nodded and rustled their bright little heads. Thorin paused mid-stride, but no sooner had the idea come upon him to back away that Bilbo turned and squinted at him in the bright afternoon sunlight.

"Oh. Hello."

He looked quite Elvish sitting there, with tiny white flowers starring the grass all about him, and yet not so. Bilbo had rolled up his sleeves and pant legs, and his torn waistcoat was folded neatly at his side. There was a sadness, a deep thoughtfulness about him that had been lacking in the Shire. Here sat one who had seen battle, used a sword and seen the light leave an enemy's eyes. Here was one who knew loss and fear and that grim courage that comes when hope has faded.

"I have intruded on your grief. Forgive me."

With any dwarf such a courtesy would have been all that was needed to extricate himself from the situation, but Bilbo sat up and blinked at him in surprise.

"Well, don't leave on my account. I was only...well, I could use a bit of company, to tell you the truth."

He patted the green turf beside him in invitation, and before Thorin realised quite what he was doing, he had sat down heavily beside the hobbit. His movement, he found, had crushed quite a few of the delicate little blooms. One poked out beneath his boot, snapped off its stem, and Thorin plucked it, rolling it between his callused fingers.

"I suppose you don't have much use for flowers." The hobbit's tone was apologetic, as though Thorin had been severely inconvenienced by having to step on them.

"It is the way of my people to look for value in the earth and not upon it. But we have wandered for near a century, and we must adapt or die for our ignorance. Hobbits place value upon such queer things, but I suppose if we lived where you do, some might come to appreciate...such things."

It was a terrible explanation, but Bilbo was nodding thoughtfully, smoke trickling from his pipe. Thorin let the flower fall, and had begun to stand when Bilbo's hand alighted on his mailed forearm. He couldn't feel it, but the sight stilled him down to his bones.

"Before you go, I was wondering if I might ask about something?"

"Of course." Thorin said gruffly.

"When Bofur was… killed, Ori cried. But when his brother spoke to him, he just stopped. And no one else - I mean, do you not mourn him? Is it just putting on a brave face? Or did he not matter?"

Bilbo's brow had furrowed deeply by his last question, and Thorin was astonished at the anger that shook the little hobbit's body.

"I know that he wasn't a great warrior like Dwalin, or like your nephews. He wasn't a healer, or a strategist, but he was kind and good and he made me feel welcome when no one else would even have cared if I fell in a ditch - and I don't understand _why_ \- And Bombur never says anything at all any more and Bifur just _stares_! Even with the hat, I couldn't make him eat this morning, or at lunchtime. I don't know what to do, and it's just a lot, frankly, and I'm sorry to tell you all my problems, you being the great Thorin Oakenshield, and a King besides, but I- that's how I feel right now."

Bilbo finally seemed to have talked himself to a standstill. He was agitated, chest heaving, and he looked at the pipe in his hand as though he had forgotten what it was for.

Gently, Thorin took it from his limp fingers and tapped the ashes onto the ground.

"There is a difference for us, Master Baggins, between mourning and grieving for the dead. Mourning is a communal gesture- a dwarf can mourn another dwarf even if they never met. But grief is reserved for kin. A dwarf can weep only for a family member, or a lover, or a childhood friend. But the relationship must be a close one, else it is disrespectful. Do you follow?"

"But I thought that Ori wasn't related to Bofur."

"He isn't. Ori is merely young, and unable to govern his emotions as older dwarves do. Nori reminded him of his place. Ori is also tender-hearted, and that is a flaw that has long been ground out of myself and my kin."

Bilbo frowned mightily at this, and shook his curly head.

"I don't think that being soft-hearted is a flaw. In the Shire, we can weep for whoever we wish to, without all this talk of disrespect and courtesy."

"Then that, Bilbo Baggins, is one of the many differences between our peoples."

Thorin handed the hobbit back his pipe and stood, his shadow throwing Bilbo into darkness.

"Thorin? Do you mourn for Bofur?"

It was softly asked, with none of the fierceness Bilbo had earlier displayed. Thorin Oakenshield answered as honestly as he could.

"Aye. But my mind is more turned to fear."

"Fear of what?"

"That he was only the first, and not the last that we will lose."

And with that, Thorin turned on his heel and left the hobbit on his little hill, much disquieted in his thoughts, and with the foreign smell of Old Toby clinging to his fingertips.

* * *

Bilbo wandered back into Beorn's house as the evening shadows sent their long fingers groping amongst the flowerbeds to find that their massive host had returned. The huge man was leaning against his table speaking to the Company, who had clustered about him with serious faces.

"The wargs are much disturbed," Beorn rumbled, "and I overheard them speaking in their foul tongue. Their leader is dead, an old she-warg, and they are turning their thoughts towards vengeance. They spoke of dwarves."

"It must have been the one that took your arrow, Kili. It is dead after all." Fili suggested, bumping his shoulder into his brother's.

Kili just shook his head, and the grave expression on his face made him look much like his uncle. Bilbo felt quite sad to see the mischievous young dwarf so grim.

"Not swiftly enough to make a difference. What does it matter if she is dead now?"

"It matters because there is one less enemy ranged against us, and a crucial one at that." Thorin said sharply. He looked up at Beorn.

"Do you think they would risk an attack on your house?"

Beorn chuckled darkly.

"Nay, Master Dwarf, the wolves of this land learnt long ago to stay clear of these parts. When the Carrock's shadow falls across them, they tuck tail and flee for their lives."

 _And their skins_ , Bilbo thought privately, though his own experience with the creatures prevented him having much sympathy.

Unfortunately, at that point the conversation was interrupted by Beorn noticing the hobbit standing unobtrusively near the doorway, and Bilbo was forced to endure several rounds of belly-poking and being called a bunny by the big skinchanger. Bilbo's urge to be a polite guest to this frankly alarming man and his immense embarrassment warred with each other, and Thorin's glowering as he watched the display only made it worse.

When Bilbo was set back upon his two furry feet, he strategically placed himself behind Bifur, hoping the toymaker's wild demeanour might forestall any future attempts, though he doubted it. Bifur didn't notice Bilbo using him as a shield. Despite the efforts of the Company, the old dwarf was slipping into longer trances, where his eyes saw nothing and he neither ate nor drank. It was a miserable thing to witness, especially as Bofur had once confided to Bilbo how the quest had wrought such a positive change in his damaged cousin.

Bilbo patted Bifur's arm, attempting to convey a rather poor attempt at comfort, and the dwarf blinked at Bilbo's hand in confusion. Bombur appeared on Bifur's other side, his eyes knowing and sorrowful, and together Bilbo and Bombur managed to get Bifur seated on one of the log seats, the easiest place to wait out his periods of absence.

It was at that moment that Gandalf came through the door, having disappeared all day without a word to anyone, and being annoying close-mouthed about his actions, and Bilbo joined the other dwarves to wait for the wizard to give an explanation. The Company forgot Bifur as he sat unmoving on his seat.

* * *

Bifur knew that his cousin was dead. But sometimes the past and the present got tangled in his mind, and it became difficult to think of Bofur when he was-

standing at the doorway, with his father's hat slipping over his eyes, and Bombur's chubby little hand in his, his lips blue with the cold, and Bifur knew immediately that this fell winter had swept away his favourite aunt, always laughing and her dark eyes glinting with joy-

putting his hand on Bifur's shoulder with a friendly smile, so like his mother's, and behind him the little fields and bright hobbit holes agleam with yellow light-

learning to carve, with Bifur's fingers folded over his tiny ones, and the wind rattling the window in its frame, his little face frowning with concentration-

killing orcs with his mattock with a savagery that is completely alien to his being, and Bifur is bound in the middle of the filthy orc-camp with blood running in front of his eyes, and the goblin that comes loping up with his axe raised is an answer to his prayers, her name like ash on his lips-

comforting Bombur, who sits with his head on his hands, his right arm clumsily wrapped in a sling fashioned from what they have on hand, which is too little, and the certainty that the mine won't take him in that condition, with only one hand to wield a tool meant for two, and the shame that he is the one that caused it-

standing between him and the men at the inn, and darkness is swimming crazily about the edges of his vision, and the handle of the boar spear is familiar under his palms-

unwrapping his broken arm outside in the snow, where Bombur can't see, tucking the fabric into his pocket, and hefting his mattock over his shoulder, he goes to earn the wage that keeps them alive, in their tiny one-room hovel, and he doesn't know that Bifur watches this early morning ritual and hurts-

smiling a soft and private smile as he picks up Bifur's wooden toys, turning them in his miner's hands, which once were much more dexterous, and does not realise that Bifur intends to earn his keep, that he will not let his cousins starve when they are-

standing so forlorn in the blizzard, and so hopeful, looking up at Bifur, not quite daring to believe that he will not send them off into the night, that he will look after them, that he will protect them.

Bifur jerked, coming back to himself. Bombur was nearby, and the wizard was back, the smell of his pipe-weed hanging heavy in Beorn's hall. And so he was the first to hear the knocking on the door, beyond the sound of the dwarves bickering and the fire popping and the muted screams inside his head.

Then the knocking came again, and the Company fell silent.

* * *

Bilbo's first thought, ludicrously, was that it was Beorn in bear-shape, wanting to be let in. It was all Gandalf's talk about dancing bears that did it, an idea simultaneously charming and horrifying.

He wasn't the only one.

"Is it a bear?" Ori asked, peering around Dori's shoulder.

There was a pause as everyone contemplated this, then Dwalin rolled his eyes and stumped towards the door leading to the outside.

"Bears don't knock." He growled.

Bilbo cast an anxious look at Gandalf but he sat quietly smoking, not giving anything away. He didn't seem worried, however, so it probably wasn't an invasion of wargs or bears or anything that would require daring and bloody deeds.

After a bit of fiddling with the latch, Dwalin flung the door open.

He cursed in Khuzdul, which meant Bilbo was quite lost as to the finer and more elegant points of his rant, but Nori's bark of laughter and Balin's mutter of disapproval gave him a fair idea as to its ingenuity.

And then Bilbo saw just who Dwalin was dragging across the threshold, and did a bit of inspired cursing himself that would have made some of his more respectable neighbours faint dead away.


	5. to stand by him

The howls rang out from behind him, rising weird and wild on the wind. The owners of those fell voices were far distant still, but Bofur knew firsthand how fast a warg could run when its blood was roused. He could not fully remember the attack two days ago, only the shocking speed of it. The only warning he had was a glimpse of ragged fur out of the corner of his eye before the old she-warg’s fangs were upon him. The only thing that had stopped her opening his stomach from end to end was the misjudgement of her leap, sending him rolling rather than pinned under her weight.

Pure, foolish luck was something Bofur had always possessed in abundance. It had kept him once from a nasty death in a coal mine near Dunland, and it had saved him from filling the bellies of warg pups not a day since. But as the howls broke off, and an ominous silence crept through the trees, Bofur had a feeling that he had mined his particular vein of luck for all it had.

He increased his pace, ignoring how his wound throbbed in time to his heartbeat. He was not brave enough to stop and unwind his makeshift bandage; the last he had seen of that cauterised strip of flesh it had been surrounded by a spiderweb of black and red veins. Bofur began to think that perhaps he had done a foolish thing, closing the wound the way he had. But the only other alternative had been to leave a blood trail through the forest.

He shifted his walking stick to his other hand, a fallen branch he had trimmed into a stave as he travelled. It seemed sturdy, but Bofur was pragmatic enough a dwarf to know that it would last at best a few moments against a pack of wolves. He was hardly a seasoned warrior like Dwalin or Thorin, or even Bifur, who was never more focused than when an enemy was at hand. His mattock would have given him a better chance, but he had not found it in the little clearing where the wargs had attacked. Bofur had also lost his hat at some point, one of his dearest possessions, which saddened him.

Yet despite his situation, which seemed to be turning from bad to worse, Bofur was grateful that it had been him and not Fili or Kili who was dragged off. Bofur had observed the Company by firelight and starlight during his watches, and a suspicion had grown in his heart of hearts that a fate such as this would be his. Thorin Oakenshield was not able to pick and choose when only thirteen dwarves had responded to his call, but even among those Bofur thought himself the least of the Company. The loss of Thorin’s heirs would have been a calamity; his, on the other hand, would not affect the quest except for a decrease in numbers.

The sun hid its face, and the sudden lack of sunlight made Bofur shiver. Exhaustion was beginning to weigh on his limbs, as he had left the warg den in the thick blackness before dawn. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and kept walking, in the back of his mind always the thought of the wolves gaining on him.

* * *

 

Bofur reached the Carrock as the wargs caught up with him. Fortunately, this time he was forewarned of their coming, as they were young wolves, and had not yet learnt the value of silence in their hunting. A great cry rang out at Bofur’s back, and other wolf voices gave tongue in a way that chilled the blood. Bofur ran, the burning in his side taking his breath as he headed for the towering rock with its carved steps.

The howls were awful, drowning out all other sound, and Bofur expected teeth to meet in his spine at any moment. But as he turned at bay at the foot of the Carrock with his stave ready to strike, there was nothing to hit. The wargs were a little way off up the valley, whining and circling one another. They showed Bofur their fangs and growled venomously, but the sight of the Carrock seemed to cow them. Their tails hung between their legs, and as Bofur watched in astonishment they turned and ran hard for the forest as though it presented safety from some danger.

Bofur stood panting, his breathing a painful thing to hear, one hand pressed to his side. He could not have been in worse physical condition had the wargs wanted a fight, but they did not return, although he stood there long enough for his heart to cease its pounding.

By chance his eyes lit on something tangled amongst the rocks. To Bofur’s delight, it turned out to be his overcoat and his scarf, much soaked with mud and grass-stained, but intact.

He chuckled to himself as he pulled them on, taking it as a hopeful sign.

“Looks like your luck hasn’t abandoned you just yet, lad.”

Bofur retrieved his stave and had a poke about the edges of the valley, looking for some sign that might show which route the Company had taken. There were several well-worn paths, some overgrown with bushes and weeds. Bofur followed one that cut off at a promising angle, but soon it began to meander back and forth until he decided it was an animal track, and doubled back.

He was following another, which faded in and out of existence as he walked, when a wonderful sound stopped him in his tracks. It was the merry burbling of a stream somewhere ahead, and his throat ached at the thought of cool water. Bofur ignored the path then, ignored any obstacle that stood between him and his burning thirst, and as a result came upon the water so suddenly that he was ankle-deep in it before he realised.

Bofur laughed, a croaky, dusty thing, and drank until he feared he might burst. He pulled off his wet boots and laved his sore feet in the water. The stream leapt and rippled, flashing with sunlight, and it was a sight more beautiful than any precious stone Bofur had ever laid eyes on. He must have lingered for an hour or so, resting and watching the water rush by. He even stripped and lay on his back in the shallows, letting the stream clean his ugly wound.

He resumed his journey much refreshed, and eminently more cheerful than he had begun it. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warm on his shoulders, and he refused to let a few spells of dizziness, where red light glowed behind his eyelids and he found himself stumbling, spoil his newfound optimism.

* * *

 

“You should have killed those warg pups.” Nori commented thoughtfully. He spun one of his concealed blades around his fingers.

Bofur tried to ignore the other dwarf. He knew Nori wasn’t actually there, no matter how convincingly the thief’s knife glittered in the sunset.

“All it takes is one solid hit to the head. It’s clean, neat. It doesn’t have to be a bloody business.” Dwalin put in, as he strode a few paces to Bofur’s right.

“They’ll just grow up to kill more innocents. Children, maybe. Even dwarves.”

“Did you think you were doing them a favour, leaving ‘em to starve to death?”

Bofur whirled furiously on them. “Would you _stop_ -“

But there was nothing there.

Bofur sighed, drew a shaking hand across his eyes. He tried to blink away the mist that curled in the edges of his vision. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought all those things himself, back there in that hole. He had even picked one of the pups up, watched it squirming and whining. But he didn’t have it in him to take such young lives, no matter their form.

Then the pup had bitten him on the finger, and he had promptly returned it to its littermates and left them to whatever fate might have in store. Hopefully, it was a kinder fate than his ghost-companions suggested.

The sun buried itself behind the hills as Bofur trudged onwards, and idly he thought of stopping and making camp for the night. But his legs didn’t seem to belong to him any more. They kept staggering onwards, and slowly he realised that this was his last great effort. Moths bumped into his face, their white wings flitting over his cheeks. If he stopped, there was a chance he would not be able to get up again.

So Bofur walked, and the moths brushed against him, and there was a patch of moon in the sky to light his way. There were pale shreds of mist floating ahead of him, and they formed into Thorin’s Company. There walked Nori and Ori, their mouths gaping in silent laughter as they shared a joke or tale, and there was Bifur, walking silent and steady. Thorin strode out in front, with his eyes flashing in his smoky face, and there was even a silent padding shadow that must be their little burglar.

Bofur couldn’t keep up, much to his dismay. The shadow-Company moved further and further ahead. He tried to call out for them to wait but his own voice sounded odd to his ears, and far distant.

“Hi, Bombur! Wait for me- wait….”

The procession of dwarves melted into the trees ahead, and where they had stood Bofur caught a glimpse of someone tall, clad in grey and holding a staff kindled with white light. There was no mistaking the shape of that hat.

“Mr Gandalf, come back! Wait for me…”

But the wizard was gone too. Painfully Bofur hurried towards the spot where Gandalf had vanished, and found himself on the edge of a field. The grass was even and springy under his boots, and the gentle slope was studded with shapes that cast strange shadows on the silver grass. Bofur approached one and felt wood beneath his questing fingers. He thumped the top of the structure with his fist and to his surprise heard a faint buzzing from within.

“Beehives.” Bofur murmured. He had no idea why there would be beehives in the middle of nowhere. Bees needed to be tended. Someone had to have built these, and been close enough to look after them when the seasons turned. Even if there was no one here now, there had to be a cabin or a shelter of some sort.

And in what was perhaps the sweetest moment of Bofur’s life, the wind changed and blew the smell of wood smoke directly into his face.

In later years, Bofur would never be able to recall how he made it across Beorn’s bee-pastures or navigated the gate in the thorn hedge. He only recalled falling hard on his knees on a wide wooden veranda, his legs trembling underneath him, and with the last of his strength pounding his closed fists against the heavy door in front of him.

His frenzied movements pulled sharply at his side and a sick wave of pain made Bofur curl up around himself with his hands pressed firmly to his wound, as though he could suppress it with physical pressure.

Then the door was suddenly gone and a warm yellow glow cast Bofur’s hunched shadow into sharp relief over the slats of wood onto the lawn beyond. Bofur rolled onto his back and looked upside down into the eyes of Dwalin, who was staring blank-faced at him.

From his present position, Bofur couldn’t tell if Dwalin was angry or happy about finding him sprawled bleeding all over someone else’s front porch.

“Evening.” Bofur managed, and gave a raspy giggle. It came out a little manic but he was so tired, after all, and it was such a relief to be off his feet and to have found at least one member of the Company that he couldn’t help it.

Dwalin’s eyebrows drew down - or up from Bofur’s point of view- into a positively thunderous expression. Then he began to swear, foully, shockingly, and it was a beautiful thing to hear.

* * *

 

The whole Company surged forward with cries of delight as Dwalin gripped Bofur beneath his arms and dragged him into the light of the hall. Thorin stood up in shock from where he sat beside Gandalf, who looked singularly unsurprised by the proceedings.

The dwarf was swiftly hidden from Thorin’s sight by the rest of the Company. He could see Fili and Kili in the thick of things, and was pleased by it. Kili had been nothing short of despondent in the past few days, and Fili little better. The guilt of Bofur’s death had clung to them no matter how he tried to shift it.

 Dwalin began barking out orders, and he rose above the other dwarves with Bofur cradled in his arms like a newborn dwarfling. The warrior strode towards the sleeping pallets at the back of the hall, Oin hard on his heels and behind them the Halfling, radiant happiness lighting up his honest face.

Thorin looked back at Gandalf, who raised an eyebrow at him.

“Did you know about this?”

“Know, Master Oakenshield? No, I did not. I hoped, being the foolish old man that I am. Then I suspected, being a wizard and of a suspicious nature. But I did not _know_ until I heard his knock on the door.”

And then he would do nothing but smile mysteriously and puff away on his pipe-weed until Thorin gave it up as useless and let the wizard keep his secrets.

The other dwarves drew back respectfully as Thorin walked over, though the change in their demeanour was obvious. Balin grinned and clapped Thorin on the shoulder as he passed, and Ori was laughing through a stream of tears.

But suddenly Oin began to curse, and the smiles froze on the Company’s faces, the jests on their tongues. Thorin leapt up the stairs and stood over the little group tending the miner: Dwalin, grim-faced and tearing strips of tablecloth, Bifur and Bombur by their kin’s side, Fili and Kili huddled together with wide eyes, and Bilbo clutching at Bofur’s limp hand with increasing anxiety.

“What is happening?” Thorin demanded.

“Damn you, get out of my light!” The old healer roared without turning his head, and swiftly Thorin paced a few steps to his right. His movement shed light on Bofur’s side, and those close enough to see flinched at the exposed wound. It was seeping sluggish black blood and pus, and Bofur’s whole side was discoloured red and purple, with angry black veins threading their way towards his chest.

“What could have done that?” Bilbo squeaked in horror. To his credit, he did not move further away, nor release Bofur’s hand, though the injured dwarf seemed beyond any sensation of it.

“A warg bite that has festered. I’ve seen such before. Mahal knows what filth is in their mouths.” Dwalin growled.

“You see here he has sealed it with fire.” Oin pointed out.

“It has infected his blood. What fool of a healer did he learn that trick from? It’s little short of torture, and useless besides!”

“We learnt what we must. Our family could not afford the healers of Erebor, before or after their exile.” Bombur, said looking uncharacteristically fierce as he glared at Oin out of the shadows.

Oin ignored him as he leaned closer to examine the fearsome wound. He probed it with clever fingers, and Bofur groaned. His eyelids flickered and he muttered something too low for Thorin to make out.

“What did he say?” Bilbo asked, looking from one dwarf to another.

“He is feverish. That is delirium you hear talking.” Oin said unhappily.

Thorin rubbed a hand over his mouth. A leaden weight had settled in his chest. He had been in far too many battles not to learn a little about wounds, and how to judge their severity. It would be a terrible thing for Bofur to have found them only to succumb to his injury. The light had only just rekindled in Kili and Bilbo’s eyes.

“Will he live?”

“It is too early to say. I need Gandalf.”

The wizard came and placed his hand over Bofur’s eyes, saying words in a language Thorin had heard once before, when Gandalf had called him back from a place near death. The miner opened his eyes just as Thorin did, but there was no lucidity in his glazed look. At last Gandalf stopped and shook his head gravely.

“I fear this has gone too deep for me to undo. Oin, it may be that Beorn has a salve of some kind to treat warg bites, or a potion which his shapeshifters know how to prepare. Come and speak to them with me, and we shall puzzle it out together.”

The healer baulked at leaving his patient, but saw the sense in the wizard’s proposal and placed Bilbo in charge of keeping Bofur warm and comfortable.

The fire burned low, and one by one the Company sought their beds. Fili and Kili held out until they were nodding with exhaustion, and Thorin sent them off with a quiet word as he stoked the flames.

By the end of it, only he, Bilbo, Bifur and Bombur continued the watch, until with a determined grunt Bifur sent Bombur to get some rest with gestures that brooked no argument. The old dwarf with the grizzled mane settled in against the wall for his vigil. Thorin sat back down and watched as Bilbo tried to make Bofur take some of the warm mash a horse had brought to them, an uncanny intelligence in its liquid brown eyes. The injured dwarf would not take it, jerking his head away and moaning quietly.

Bilbo’s quiet patience with his task had lasted for hours. His voice was nearly worn away with murmuring reassurances to Bofur, and as the dwarf turned his face once again from the mash Bilbo’s voice broke a little and he rested his curly head in his hand. Bifur caught Thorin’s eye and signed emphatically. Thorin gave him the slightest nod in return.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asked, keeping his voice as low as possible in the hush of the great room.

The hobbit blinked up at him wearily.

“You must rest. Bifur and I will keep the watch until Oin and Gandalf return.”

Bilbo shook his head. He tried and failed to hide a jaw-cracking yawn beneath his hand.

“No, no, I’m okay. I want to stay up.”

He bent his head to his task again stubbornly.

“I will wake you if anything changes.” Thorin tried, gently removing the bowl and spoon from Bilbo’s unresisting hands.

“All right.” Bilbo sighed, pushing himself to his feet.

“But promise you’ll wake me, even if… even if it’s going bad.”

“I will.” Thorin promised solemnly, and was rewarded by the hobbit turning around and pattering towards his bed.

Silence fell on the house of Beorn, and in his great hall Thorin and Bifur sat and waited and watched, while Bofur fought for his life on the bed between them. Thorin had achieved a small victory by getting the miner to take some of the mash, putting a sharp note of command into his request that the dwarf obeyed blindly. He could only hope that it would do some good.

Oin returned alone and bound Bofur’s side with a concoction he scraped from a little pot that smelled of honey. Thorin ordered the old dwarf to rest and a second promise was exacted from him that night if Bofur’s condition changed.

Soon, Bofur began to hallucinate. His words made little sense but they were imbued with a sense of such horror that Thorin found himself replying, and discovered that Khuzdul soothed the wounded dwarf where Bilbo could not. Bifur sat silent as stone in his corner, and Thorin did not know if he slept or woke, or had fallen into one of his trances.

So there was no one to see Thorin bend his head in prayer and hear the ancient words.

“ _Mahal protect this one, for he lights a fire at your forge. Mahal gift this one, for he is worth more than mithril. Mahal save this one, for he has a willing heart_.”

* * *

 

Dawn came rosy and clean, with a breath of sweet air that woke Bilbo from where he lay amongst his blankets. For a moment Bilbo lounged with a smile playing on his lips, before he recalled the night before and struggled to his feet.

He was the first awake, and his bare feet were silent on the wooden boards as he approached where Bofur lay. Thorin was there, and he raised his head to look at Bilbo, who could not tell what was written in those eyes.

Bilbo carefully stepped over to Bofur, and looked over at Bifur to see his strange eyes crinkling at the corner as he smiled. Bilbo hardly dared to breathe as he pulled back the blankets draped over his friend. He laid the back of his hand on the dwarf’s forehead.

“The fever broke.” Bilbo said in astonishment, looking from Thorin to Bifur with a wary joy flooding into his heart.

“Yes.” Thorin said simply, and the morning light picked out the silver threads in his dark hair.

Below them, Bofur opened his eyes, and the awful dull gleam Bilbo remembered from last night had been replaced with a little of the dwarf’s old spark.

“Mister Boggins.” He said hoarsely, and his familiar smile brought one to Bilbo’s lips.

“I suppose I shall have to return your hat then.” Bilbo said, and his voice was thick with unshed tears.

“If you don’t mind.”

“It is a pity. I look quite fetching in it.” Bilbo sobbed, and Bofur laughed until he had to clutch his side with pain, and was reprimanded firmly by Bifur.

Then Fili and Kili came bounding over with identical grins on their faces to ruffle Bilbo’s hair and make Thorin smile quietly into his beard, and Gandalf opened the porch door and let in a flood of birdsong and sunshine, rousing the rest of the Company from their slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly drowned in a pile of feels trying to finish this chapter. It’s finally finished hooray! Time to sleep (and then probably start another Hobbit fic because I am a glutton for punishment). Yay Bofur! Hope you enjoyed! *is dead*

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit. It belongs to the late, great J.R.R. Tolkien. The chapter titles are from 'Sally's Song' from The Nightmare Before Christmas.


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